


Nuclear

by Bool_Ji



Series: Pains, Gains, and Automata [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Relationships, M/M, Pain, Secrets, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7338838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bool_Ji/pseuds/Bool_Ji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo has been a member of Overwatch for three weeks when his career takes a spectacular turn for the worse.</p><p>Choo-choo!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Breathe deep. Ignore the meaningless distractions of the world without, and turn your attention to the world within. The mind has no limit. Expand your consciousness...and gaze into the iris.”

Even if Zenyatta was not a guru, Genji could listen to his voice for days. Everything the monk says is poetry. That his words unfurl from a synthetic vocal emulator gives him hope. One day his own story could bring comfort, a parable of enlightenment.

It’s a dream of his, and pursue it he will, but for now, he is content to sit by his master. Tracer and Reinhardt have joined them. While the pilot smiles serenely -- _Her view of the iris is from ten thousand feet_ , Genji muses -- the German seems to be dozing off, head lolling onto his shoulder. The cyborg tries not to chuckle. Meditation is not for everyone.

He’s halfway to a trance state when his auditory system catches a steady, infrasonic frequency. Dampened footsteps.

The man who cautiously treads into the doorway turns what remains of his guts into ice.

Hanzo watches them for a moment. He knows Genji’s staring right back despite his face plate. He just _knows_. Before he can lose his nerve, he keeps going, slinking down the hallway.

Genji waits for his heart rate to settle, then gently touches Zenyatta’s knee. “Excuse me.”

The omnic doesn’t ask why, and lets him leave without commenting.

\- - -

Watchpoint: North Shore is a small complex nestled in the mountains outside of Vancouver, sheltered from prying eyes by dense forest cover and harsh weather. The chilly gloom is torn by the wings of a passing flock of birds. It reminds Hanzo of a war-torn banner fluttering in a desolate breeze. Opening the window on the observation deck, he kneels before the gray clouds, hands on his thighs. There are wasps in his stomach. He refuses to let it show.

“You could have warned me you were coming.”

Genji’s voice carves a fissure in his confidence. As his brother sits next to him, yet keeping a respectful ( _and safe_ , Hanzo notes) distance away, the archer reaches for his resolve. It’s better to get this over with. “Foresight was never your strong suit either.”

“So you were in the neighborhood, thought you would climb a mountain and visit me?” Genji glances at Hanzo. The archer ignores him, so he looks back out to the horizon. “You chose a good time to do it. The trails are treacherous in the winter, even for experienced hikers like yourself.”

Everything Genji says sounds like an accusation. How much does he know? How much data has Overwatch gathered? There are cameras everywhere; how many have they tapped, scanned with facial recognition software, tracked him from the streets of New York City to the dunes outside Dubai to the Great Wall of China? And then there are satellites, surveillance drones, a phone in every pocket -- how much of his private struggle have they torn open?

All at once, Hanzo feels very small, like a bug under a microscope.

Genji doesn’t need pheromone sniffers or infrared vision to tell his sibling hurts. “Hey.” Hesitating, he rests a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. Not because he is afraid, but because comforting his brother is like catching mist in a bottle -- it’s all too easy to push him away. “I am glad you are with us. Overwatch is not perfect, but it is just. How long have you been a member?”

“Three weeks,” Hanzo says. Genji’s palm is cool to the touch, part of why his skin is crawling.

“Have you met everyone yet?”

“No.”

“You will. And you will like them, Hanzo, if you give them a chance.”

 _Have you been talking to the cowboy?_ The question comes so far out of left field Hanzo is surprised he thought it. In the two weeks since Jesse McCree saved him from being crushed by an airplane, the outlaw has been lurking in the back of his mind. Shredding through the database for information didn’t help. Former Deadlock Gang member turned Overwatch starling, atoning for his sins by protecting the weak and upholding the law. For hours Hanzo had read his biography, hunting for ulterior motives, but there seemed to be none. Just a simple man turning his life around.

It made Hanzo want to slam his tablet into the trash. McCree knew _nothing_ about redemption.

“Hanzo?” Genji’s grip tightens slightly. A gentle reminder.

The archer shakes the fog out of his mind. He came to North Shore for a reason. _Like tearing off a bandage_ , he thinks. He stumbles over sincerity, trips up on syntax, and lands in the toothy maw of good old self-loathing. Feeling what’s left of his nerve grinding into powder, he finds his tongue, fingernails biting crescent moons into his hands-- “Genji, I am--”

“Sorry,” Zenyatta says.

The brothers turn to face the omnic, hovering behind them. When he speaks, his voice has none of its usual tranquility. “Genji, it is urgent. We are required.”

The cyborg pats Hanzo’s shoulder before standing. As he retreats with Zenyatta down the hallway, the archer pinches his brow, sighing. It was there -- it was almost _there_. Now it feels like there’s an anchor lodged in his throat. It’s not even noon, but he takes a slug from his flask anyway just to force the weight down. The harsh sake burn is welcome. When the world has regained its sense of sanity, he gets to his feet and follows the cyborg and the omnic.

Whatever interrupted him better be goddamn important.

\- - -

The communications room consists of a single circular table ringed with chairs. Genji prefers to stand and Zenyatta floats, as always, watching the three holograms projected from the furniture, depicting Winston, Bastion, and McCree from their various locations around the world.

Hanzo hangs back, listening outside the door.

“They’re moving ahead of our estimated schedule,” Winston says. Visible behind him is a display of a pill-shaped object. “I apologize for the abrupt nature of this mission, but it is of the utmost importance we go, and we go _now_.” He turns away and blows up the image, revealing in greater detail its insides: an organized chaos of wires and gadgetry nestled around a central package.

The atmosphere in the room becomes much colder. McCree folds his hands together, rests his chin on his knuckles, brow furrowed.

“This is a cobalt bomb,” Winston explains, “A nuclear payload surrounded by cobalt metal. When detonated, the explosion transmutes it into a radioactive isotope, which rains back to earth as dust and debris settles. Anyone caught in the fallout would receive a lethal dose of radiation poisoning within five minutes. Given a half-life of five-point-two-seven years, a bomb of this magnitude would render hundreds of miles uninhabitable for decades, reduced to a glowing wasteland.” Winston faces the camera again. “Gentlemen -- and Bastion -- by this time tomorrow, the bomb will be on a train bound for Los Angeles, protected by Talon’s finest agents. We must intercept it.”

Winston gives them a moment to let this sink in, then continues, “I will lead this mission as chief engineer. I know how to defuse the bomb, but given the nature of the weapon, I cannot do it manually. That is where Bastion comes in. Its systems are unaffected by radiation, and thus will remotely deactivate the bomb, following my instructions.”

Bastion _beep-boops_ affirmatively, waving. It sounds almost cheerful about the situation.

“McCree,” Winston says, “You’re tactical advisor. I hear you have experience robbing trains.”

“That I do,” Jesse drawls. With eyes on him, he quickly reverts back to his usual demeanor, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll show you boys why they make _movies_ ‘bout this sorta thing.”

He has a cigar lifted to his lips when he catches movement out the corner of his eye.

“Genji,” Winston says, “This calls for a great deal of close-quarters combat. Your agility is required.”

The cyborg bows. “My blade is ready.”

“Zenyatta. Keep us alive.”

The omnic nods slightly, fingers folded in the chin mudra. “As always, I am by your side.”

Winston grunts acknowledgement, but looks troubled. “I have carefully assembled this team...yet the omission of a sixth member doesn’t sit well with me. I shouldn’t let tradition get in the way of balance, not on a mission as critical as this, but--”

“Let Hanzo go,” McCree says.

The archer flinches as if he’s been shot, eyes blown wide. How did -- he -- when did he come closer, when did he expose himself in the doorway-- Genji and Zenyatta stare at him with equal shock and confusion. It feels like all the air has been sucked from the room.

“I know he’s new,” Jesse continues, unfazed, “But all he’s been on so far are training sessions and little spats. If he’s serious about bein’ a productive, dependable member of Overwatch, he’s gotta step up his game. Besides, this’ll be fun. Who doesn’t like trains?”

Hanzo wishes he had his bow. It would do nothing to a hologram. He wants it for something to hold, for something to stop his hands from shaking.

Genji notices this and immediately turns to the pictures, raising his palms. “No! You do not want Hanzo for this! I--” He tries to think of an excuse. _If a train leaves the station at sixty miles an hour_ , comes the thought, _And an arrow is fired in the direction it is moving at three hundred feet per second, why did I ignore math in school?_ “He is not suited for the mission--” Genji could kick himself. “Too inexperienced--” Wrong. “There is, ah--”

“I will go.”

No one moves. Genji slowly drops his arms, looking over his shoulder. Hanzo strides past him, staring at the holograms like they could burst into flames with only his gaze. He’s as pale as a sheet. “I agree to your mission,” the archer barks, scowling, “I will be your sixth. I will rendezvous with Genji and Zenyatta at the drop point at the designated time, and I will stop your cobalt bomb.”

McCree blows smoke at the camera, grinning. Hanzo imagines every time he’s broken his neck and wants to do it again.

Dumbfounded, Winston takes a second to recover. Coughing, he says, “Yes. Well. I’m glad to see you’re enthusiastic. But there is one matter _all_ of you need to know.” He takes a deep breath. “This is a high-speed procedure on winding railroad track through mountainous terrain. There is no respawn. If you die, to borrow an idiom from Miss Song, game over.”

It’s heavy news. Hanzo finally breaks the silence. “I do not fear death.” With that, he shoots one last caustic glare at McCree, turns his wrath to Genji, and storms out of the room.

“I’m sending coordinates to your shuttles,” Winston says, typing on an unseen keyboard, “Pack your belongings, gentlemen -- and Bastion. Get your affairs in order, if you must. We meet at 1800 hours.”

One by one, the holograms blink off. Genji all but collapses into a chair, pries his face plate off, and rubs his eyes, sighing. _Idiot_ , he thinks, _How could you succumb to fear like that?_

Zenyatta reaches for him. “Genji--”

“Do not talk to him,” the cyborg says, “Do not look at him. Do not _breathe_ at him. I have made a grave mistake, my mind is clouded with the shadows of the past, I--”

“Genji.” Zenyatta descends into a chair of his own, legs unfolding to touch his feet to the floor. He takes his student’s hand in his, feeling their systems network together. It’s a calm, holy sensation, one he knows his pupil shares. “It is different this time.”

Genji slowly calms down, meeting Zenyatta’s gaze. His face, warped and scarred, is further twisted by pain. “Master, I pray that is true.”

\- - -

They make base in a closed campground in the San Gabriel Mountains. Surveillance equipment is scattered about, radio dishes and antennae and towers camouflaged as trees. Winston confirms with headquarters the mission is go and wishes everyone good night. They will need all the rest they can get.

Hanzo commandeers a cabin far away from the rest. As the sun fades, McCree goes to check on him. He finds the archer taking potshots at pine cones. Shirtless. The cowboy would admire how every arrow finds dead center -- and how sweat contours to his muscles, that’s also important -- if not for one subtle aspect. He’s shooting fast.

“Howdy.”

Hanzo turns on him in an instant, bow aimed at his face. Jesse lifts his hands, stopping in his tracks. “Whoa there! We’re on the same side this time, partner!”

The archer lowers his weapon but his knuckles still squeeze white. “Begone,” he hisses.

“Just want to see what’s eatin’ you, partner. It’s normal to be nervous before a big heist, y’know. ‘Specially yer first. You always git half-naked when yer mad? More than usual, I mean--”

Hanzo’s strung his bow onto his back and is halfway to the cabin before Jesse can blink. He runs to keep up. “Hey now! No disrespect! It’s a piece a’ cake, really. Just gonna drop down on ‘em when they least expect it, swing in through a window--”

No no no no _no_ this is going all wrong. McCree isn’t entirely sure why he thrusts his arm into the doorway when Hanzo slams the door. All he’s aware of is a large chunk of old wood smashing off on his steel and a pair of pretty browns staring large with horror through the resulting hole. That’ll leave a dent. He’ll deal with it later.

“Y’know, your brother takes a pill when he gets like this,” Jesse says, “You have anything like that? You need it? Just tell me, I kin find it. I won’t tell a soul.”

Hanzo feels like he’s stepped into the eye of the storm in his head. The rain will come back, and the life preserver McCree’s offering won’t hold up against its wrath, but for now it’s too tempting not to cling to. Mindful of splinters, Hanzo slowly cracks the ruined door wider. “Does he?”

The change in demeanor is so quick Jesse gets whiplash. “Uh...yeah. I dunno what it is exactly, but he’s had ‘em fer as long as I’ve known ‘im.”

 _This man is a complete idiot_ , Hanzo realizes. Far too trusting, even of his own teammates. No regard to how Genji would react to having this secret spilled. And because of him, he’s caught in the middle of nowhere being eaten alive by mosquitoes and the ghosts of yesteryear.

He needs to be punished.

Hanzo lets him in. “Sit.”

McCree does, settling on the edge of the meager bed. He looks wary. Good.

The archer shuts and leans against the ruined door, arms folded. “How did you lose your arm?”

Jesse knows he’s being led down a dangerous path. He’s been there before. He’s grateful to have Peacekeeper at his side -- then remembers the five million people living in the city below, counting on his team to act as one. “This here?” He raises the limb in question, lets light catch on its edges. “Blown to smithereens. Juarez, 2037. Unexploded ordnance. Kid not six years old found a goddamn mine on a battlefield we were clearin’. Took it from ‘im, tried to lob it away--” McCree shrugs. “Wasn’t fast enough.”

“Hn.” Very heroic. Hanzo doesn’t believe him for a second. He steps over to McCree, raises a foot onto the bed. The cowboy’s paying attention to his body language, eyeing his prosthetics, the faintly glowing stripe in his heel.

“I was hit by a train.”

The way Jesse’s brows knit gives Hanzo a rush of hideous glee. Before he can make his own mental images, the archer continues:

“I was twenty-five. My men and I were negotiating a deal with Cambodian insurgents. The train was bound for Tobata on the eastern coast of Honshu. If they agreed to our terms, they would receive our shipment of weapons and sail away to fight their wars. If not, they would leave with nothing. Trains were mobile, discreet -- easy to disguise guns and missiles as boxes of parts.

“My brother was supposed to join me. To see how it was done. He did not attend.

“The deal turned sour. They could not pay in money, so they sought to pay in blood. They pulled their weapons. We pulled ours. You have been in combat in small spaces -- you know what is is like to feel bullets carve your breath, to see slugs strike inches from your head. I ordered the retreat. They fired wildly, and we were all surrounded by live ammunition.

“I made it to the roof three cars away when something detonated. The entire train shook -- I saw the fireball rise -- the shock wave overwhelmed me and I fell. Do not worry. The train caught me, but it too demanded a price.

“I do not remember how long I lay beside the tracks, bleeding out, surrounded by wreckage and the corpses of my men, but I recall awakening in a hospital. Genji was there. So was my father. I thought of him as a stoic man, with a will to outlast the mountains...he saw my stumps, and, for the first time, I saw his fear.”

Hanzo drops his leg back to the floor. “Two months of recovery. Three years to relearn everything: how to walk, how to climb, how to fight. Father would watch me. He--” The archer hesitates, forces down the hot lump that clings to his throat, tries again: “He pitied me. Like a broken doll. So he turned his attention to my brother, let him play his games and fuck whores and stumble home drunk, wired on drugs...

“Father died suddenly. The clan elders ordered me to curb Genji’s behavior. He refused to listen. Then it occurred to me: he has numbed himself to life. He would rather exist in a digital world than reality, cowardly avoiding pain and drinking as much pleasure as he could stand. He was effectively dead already. I planned to give him an honorable end, but all those years of pain, of rage...you said it yourself. Slaughter is the best therapy.”

McCree wears a brave face, but his skin is white. Something squirms in Hanzo’s heart. _The dragon hungers_ , he thinks. “That is why I do not like trains,” he says, leaning close, “So thank you, Jesse McCree, for allowing me to relive my worst nightmare.”

There is nothing he can say. The cowboy leaves without a word, departing into the cool darkness of oncoming night. He tries to forget Hanzo’s speech, to focus instead on the mission, but the archer’s reptile grin sticks with him for hours.


	2. Chapter 2

“We don’t need you.”

Zero hour. While most of the team is enjoying what may be their last meal – except for Bastion, who sits to itself off to the side and croons to the birds – McCree approaches a cabin far away from the rest, two cups of coffee in his hands. Hanzo, resting on the front steps, pauses counting his arrows to watch him. There is a stone in his heart and the cowboy isn’t helping.

“Nothin’ personal,” Jesse says, eyes on the pine needle-carpeted earth, “Yer a damn good marksman. One of the best I’ve ever seen. But you can sit this one out. And if anyone gives ya grief, they can answer to me. Provided, of course, I don’t die in the next hour or so.”

True to his nature, Hanzo immediately starts picking for motives. Angles. He does not appreciate being treated like a pawn, especially when the stakes are so high. This is a challenge, an insult, a…

The archer sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. It’s too early for this shit. He pats the space next to him.

Looking a bit like he’s already coming face-to-face with a bombshell, McCree sits. “Sleep well?”

Hanzo grunts the negative. “Fitful at best.”

“I can sleep anywhere. Boats, planes, the shuttle, standin’ up – don’t matter to me none. Couldn’t last night. I was hurtin’ too bad.”

Schadenfreude zaps a gleeful little spark up Hanzo’s spine. It gets nowhere important before a heavy block of anxiety smashes it into gooey paste. It felt so necessary to break the cowboy’s heart. Now? It’s laughable. All he has done is reveal one of his biggest secrets to a man he’s known for all of three weeks. Why?

“Misery loves company,” he muses.

“Shit, Hanzo–”

_Here it comes_ , the archer thinks, ‘ _If you had only told me sooner! If only you had disemboweled your memories in front of men you do not trust! It is_ your _fault you are in this disaster!_ ’

“–I’m sorry.”

That earns him a raised eyebrow and a glance. McCree will take it.

“It wasn’t right of me to pull you into this,” Jesse continues, “I let my goddamn ego get in the way. Callin’ you out, takin’ you for a rookie when you’ve killed me fair ‘n square fifty times… You have every right to be angry, Shimada. I’m an asshole. Dead to rights.”

Well. Hanzo takes a cup from McCree, hides his pensive frown in it. “Forty. Forty deaths.”

Something flip-flops in the cowboy’s chest.

The archer takes a sip, makes a face, spits on the ground. The rest of the coffee follows. “This tastes like shit.”

“Er, yeah,” Jesse replies, spilling his own, turning his head so he can’t see his blush. “Yer brother’s got gadgets out the wazoo, but an espresso machine ain’t one of ‘em.”

Setting the cup down, Hanzo rests his temple on his hands. The rub of his gauntlet against his skin is familiar. Soft yet strong, the product of washing blood from it dozens of times. He’s been called to kill so many times. Now it is not for money. It is for thousands of people waking up in the city below, unaware that their continued existence depends on two robots, a reanimated cyborg, a monkey, an idiot…and Jesse McCree.

“I will not abandon the mission.” Hanzo stands, grasping his bow. Fixing an astounded McCree in his hawkish gaze, he says, “For too long I have acted selfishly. No more! The jaws of the dragon will crush foul dreams. I shall find–” He stops short. Collects his thoughts. “ _We_ shall find victory this day.” He crooks his fingers, slings his bow on his back as he walks away. “Come.”

The flippy-floppy thing has gone _berserk_ , dashing and dancing from one end of Jesse’s body to the other, leaves him feeling like steam’s coming out his ears and he could ascend into heaven. Fanning himself with his hat, he murmurs, “I think I just did.” 

\- - -

The train is an olive green centipede steadily stampeding through the winding, mountainous track. Twenty cars long and military grade, the moment the shuttle comes into sight, side doors slide open and Talon soldiers raise their guns skyward. The aircraft’s bulk and armor plating deflects the majority of their bullets, but some find their marks and land with loud _THUNKS_ on the hull.

Not helping Hanzo’s stomach at all.

“Bomb’s in the third car from the engine,” McCree says, “We git down there, kill anyone in our way, then stop the train or defuse the explosive, whichever comes first. The folks shootin’ at us are dead either way. Don’t take prisoners. They don’t care.”

The shuttle sinks lower. The thuds and pings come more frequently.

“We ready?”

Genji rolls three shuriken between his fingers, grasps his sword. “I am prepared to do whatever it takes.”

“For the innocent,” Zenyatta intones, “May we bring an end to this.”

“The ship’s autopilot is set to retreat once we’ve departed,” Winston says, lifting his cannon, “I will call it back when it is needed. Uh, not to upset anyone, but if we don’t make it out of this…you are all fine soldiers, and it has been an honor to know you.”

Bastion _beep-boops_ nonchalantly.

Hanzo can’t find his tongue. Knuckles white and belly churning, he nods once.

McCree tips his hat. Above the scream of air as the shuttle’s hatch opens, he shouts, “All aboo-oard!”

Genji’s the first to leave. Leaping onto the roof of the train like he’s done it his entire life, his gyroscopes seek purchase and keep him level as he hauls ass forward. His blade deflects a round back at its sender. The Talon agent’s helmet pops like a cherry and his corpse tumbles from the train and out of sight.

McCree’s right behind him. Zenyatta drops, whisking a golden orb of light toward Genji. The ball follows the ninja like a sacred balloon. Winston’s next, stumbling a little as the train lurches, but his deft fingers get a grip. Pressing his glasses firmly up his nose, he follows his teammates as they charge from the very last car toward the engine far ahead.

Hanzo can’t move.

The car is only six feet away but it may as well be six thousand and the mission is a pinprick in a hurricane. His feet are frozen, his head is tearing itself apart, there’s glass in his veins, and when the train sounds its horn, he knows he’s in way too deep, that even the roar of the dragons cannot compete with his demons.

And then he’s falling, and he’s twenty-five again, shouting as pressure wraps python tight around his chest–

–it’s Bastion.

Hanzo keeps his iron hold on the omnic until he’s fairly sure his heart won’t explode, though the train’s rocking and jolting continually spike his pulse. He’s vaguely aware of the shuttle peeling off, jets a blast of fading heat. No turning back now.

“I am fine,” he says, voice cracking, “Let me go.”

Bastion does, slowly, allowing him plenty of time to find his balance. Standing at its full height, it looks down at Hanzo curiously, makes a cradle with its arms, _bloop_ s a polite question.

Embarrassment flushes lava hot through the archer. Coddled by a machine. He shifts his weight, feeling out the train – it’s worse than he remembers. “ _No_. No. I can – I _will_ walk.” As an afterthought: “Thank you.”

Bastion bows respectfully, then presses on, objectives in mind – but not too quickly. Holding back. Waiting for him.

Hanzo threads his weapon. He may be a fly waiting for a windshield on the freeway, but at least he’s not alone.

\- - -

“Sir! Sustaining heavy casualties!”

The conductor flits her hands over the controls, flicking through camera feeds mounted in Talon helmets. They’re dropping in droves. Shurikens bite into jugular veins, spitting streams of blood. Images dissolve into twisted snow as electricity courses through soldiers’ bodies and spheres of dark matter menaces delicate circuitry. Bringing up the rear is an old _omnic_ of all things, shifting into sentry mode. And then there’s the archer, using the robot as cover, launching arrows at two hundred miles per hour.

_This is what’s become of my unit_? he thinks, _A bunch of circus freaks_?

“There are only six of them. _Six_!” The conductor gives a short, giddy laugh. “Alpha and Bravo squads have been terminated. That was sixteen trained operatives. _Sixteen_! _Gone_!” Her fingers draw up holograms, cranking the throttle as high as they’ll go. The train groans as its engine pours on the power. She channels her fear through the horn, pulling it twice and relishing its bellows. “Increasing speed. We’ll be lucky if there’s anyone left by the time we hit LA!”

“Stop whining.”

The shotgun blast is deafening, but his ears are long used to the noise. The conductor’s corpse slumps onto the controls. He shoots her five times more, gore flying as his guns rip delicate instruments to shattered, sparking shreds.

Reaper drops the empties and lets refreshed weapons fit into his fists. “I will deal with this myself.”

\- - -

A strange sensation has come over Hanzo. A weird current runs through him, not quite water, not quite lightning. Mercurial and peculiar, it tightens his muscles and grits his jaw. Queasy, not for the first time does he reach for Bastion, taking hold of one part or another, murmuring quiet thank yous he doubts the omnic can even hear. If they get out of this alive, he’s buying it a spa treatment. 

And then, far ahead, McCree shouts.

“TUNNEL! EVERYONE DOWN!”

There’s no stopping the mountain and Talon knows it, soldiers quickly withdrawing into the train. Grunting, Winston pries up a hatch on the roof of a car and the team drops in just as the earth overtakes them.

They descend into darkness. Hanzo tries to catch his breath and fails miserably. _This could be my tomb_ , he thinks, and cracks a feral smile lest he lose his mind.

“Hey.” It’s McCree. He reaches for the archer in the pitch black, bumps against his bow, and follows its curve until he brushes against his hand. “How you holdin’ up?”

He had to ask out loud. In front of everyone. Jesse truly is an idiot. At least they cannot see…save for the electric green slit peering at him. Hanzo has no idea how much Genji can decipher, if he can scan his pulse, his body temperature, the dilation of his pupils – a weapon seeking his weaknesses. And McCree is still holding his hand like he’s his goddamn mother, who is _not_ someone he wants to think about when he’s packed inside a rattling, rolling grave and about to have a meltdown on par with the bomb they’re chasing–

Shadow shifts in the gloom behind the cyborg.

Genji must have been reading _something_ about Hanzo because no sooner has the archer noticed what’s wrong has he turned to face their latest obstacle and–

“Die, die, _die_!”

Hanzo has enough time to watch his teammates crumple, chunks of flesh and steel ripping off before a blast catches him in the belly and his world shrinks into a deep, reeling agony. He falls to his knees, bow forgotten, and reaches for his torso, not ready to feel the slick slide of his life tumbling out of him–

–all he receives is the fabric of his garb, wet only with perspiration.

Above him stands death in a black coat, silhouetted against a radiant mandala of warm light. Zenyatta, calm and collected, beckons his comrades to rise with his eight gleaming arms, their wounds healed before they ever existed.

“ _Experience tranquillity_.”

_I truly have gone mad_ , Hanzo thinks.

No sooner has the light begun to fade does Reaper fire point-blank on Zenyatta, ripping a pained grunt from synthetic transmitters, dropping the monk to the floor. “ _Master_!” Genji cries, enhanced limbs springing him forward.

His brother’s voice spurns Hanzo to act. Threading his bow, he lets the arrow fly. It catches Reaper in the shoulder; he yells in pain and then he is one with the dark–

The car erupts with daylight. They’re out of the tunnel. McCree spots a single shadow disobeying the sun, oozing through the roof. “ _Reyes_!” He gives pursuit, clambering up the hatch and out of sight.

Genji kneels beside Zenyatta. The omnic’s torso is blown open, revealing wires and chips. “Master…”

“All will be well,” Zenyatta replies, remarkably calm. “Allow my shields to regenerate.”

“I will tend to him,” Winston says, “Go. Stop the train!”

Reluctantly, Genji stands. He flips three more shuriken into his hand and meets Hanzo’s eye. “ _Iku yo_!”

The archer nods. After nearly dying and witnessing a robot’s spirit, he’s run out of time and patience for thought. Genji leads the way, shredding through Talon operatives emerging from the dark, Bastion moves behind him, and Hanzo takes position between them, attention divided between the men shooting at him and the bright red target his arrow has painted, running on the train above them. He can hear the cowboy’s spurs clinking on the roof until they fall silent. The target has stopped moving. It’s holding a pair of shotguns.

If he could kill all of them so easily, what chance does McCree stand on his own?

Hanzo comes to a halt so quickly Bastion can barely react, beeping frantically as it grabs the wall. Not the wall – a door. The side door of the train car.

His brain is _screaming_ at him, begging him to reconsider what he’s about to do. In the end, his heart wins out.

“Bastion,” Hanzo says, “I need you to help me be incredibly stupid.”

\- - -

_Showdown at the O.K. Corral_ , McCree thinks. Ten paces away from Reaper, once his former mentor, now a mercenary, one hand hovers by his holster, the other holds his hat in place. The wind is razor sharp and rips into his eyes. The pain only serves to make him angrier. “That’s enough! Give up! Whatever yer plannin’, it ain’t gonna work!”

Reaper turns to face him, mask a stoic barrier. “It’s obvious, you worm. This bomb is going to kill millions of people. You never were that bright.”

Jesse’s unfazed. That harsh croak, the talons, the steel… “This ain’t you, Gabe. Yer a mean sonuva bitch, but this is too far.”

“Ask _Ziegler_ about going too far. Look what she _made me_.” Reaper brandishes his arm. The strip of flesh between his gauntlets and his coat sizzles in the light. “I hover in the boundary between life and death, and it _hurts_. Every second of this pitiful existence is agony. This is what respawn did to me. This is the curse I am bound to. Let the blight I unleash reflect the plague that is Overwatch.”

McCree shakes his head sadly. “You already made plenty of ghosts, Gabe. Jack misses you.”

Reaper lifts his guns.

The arrow strikes the side of his head, penetrating leather and Kevlar to find the bone underneath.

And Reaper falls, dissolving into mist that the wind drags away.

\- - -

For a man perched with one foot in an omnic’s tight grip, Hanzo feels pretty good. Standing on Bastion’s arm, stretched out the door as far as it can reach, no longer in the train but _beside_ it, it was only a matter of simple geometry to find the angle that let him shoot Reaper before Reaper could shoot Jesse. And ignoring the lightheaded sensation. He has never fainted before and he is not going to now.

He gives a shocked McCree a quick nod and a grimace. It’s the best he can muster.

Bastion bleeps loudly. To Hanzo, it sounds like “tree!”

There _is_ a tree. A large one. Growing very close to the tracks. And coming straight for him.

Bastion throws him toward the train quick enough to prevent a grisly collision, but not enough to save itself. The tree smashes its arm, pieces exploding like confetti, and the omnic emits a nails-on-a-chalkboard screech.

Hanzo meets the train chest first, breath slamming out of him. He has no time to snag another. His gauntlet – so soft and supple – gets no purchase on the sleek roof, and with his bow in the other hand, he can’t recover. He slides just as he did thirteen years ago, the rushing ground and thundering wheels hungry for blood. He gasps in pure animal terror as he slips off the train–

–McCree dives for him–

–his fingertips brush wind-chilled cloth–

–he catches him.

Both hands around the archer’s arm, lying on his belly like a salamander, McCree can’t pull him up. Gravity chews at him, limbs howling in protest– “C’mon, Hanzo!”

He can’t. He can’t, he can’t – it’s a loop in his head, just as this is a loop in time. This is the part where he falls, and no amount of reinforced carbon fiber and titanium alloy will save him – this is where he falls for good and becomes a smear: nameless, worthless, forgotten.

Jesse lets go.

–for a split second. His left hand, the prosthetic, closes hard around Hanzo’s own. Bones grind together, a bolt of electric pain that slaps away the dark spots in Hanzo’s vision. He sees McCree straining, sweat pouring down his face–

“Yer gonna make _me_ fall, fatass, _c’mon_!”

Running solely on instinct, the archer’s feet seek the side of the train. Hanzo scales the last tiny distance, Jesse yanks him up, and they both collapse on the roof.

McCree notices two things. One: he’s lost his hat. Two: Hanzo is hyperventilating. Curled up like a dying bug, Hanzo wheezes in a futile attempt to get himself under control. His mind and his body are on two separate planes of reality. Only slightly aware of the tremors that course through him, his eyes see a hospital room miles away and over a decade in the past. Sanitary and open, the light is dim and an eerie shade of green. A heart monitor beeps a monotonous tune. There is a plastic mask over his nose and mouth and a band around his wrist. He can’t feel his legs.

Genji stands nearby, timid and small. In front of him is their father, solid and imposing, dressed for a funeral. He draws down the blankets covering Hanzo. What’s left of his legs are ugly, bruised stumps, skin and muscle stitched together over the balls of his knees. _Don’t look at them_ , Hanzo pleads, _No, please–_

Father grimaces, teeth bared in disgust, lifts the sheets up again. His face says enough.

_Perhaps you should have died instead_.

“Hanzo!”

Perhaps he _should_ have died. How different it would be. How much strife avoided. It would be better.

“Hanzo!”

Perhaps he is dying right now. Perhaps his heart is giving out. Perhaps his brain is melting. Perhaps the dragons agree that he is a lost cause and are leaving him–

“ _Hanzo_!”

Jesse grabs the archer’s chin hard enough to bruise and pulls him close, staring into blown-out pupils. Reflexively Hanzo latches onto McCree’s arms, knuckles white. “Snap out of it!” the cowboy shouts, “Come back here, man, mission ain’t over yet!”

Mission? 

Hanzo crashes into himself with meteoric force. Shaking the remnants of memories away, he takes a quick moment to finally catch his breath. Rattled, freezing, and not feeling terribly solid, he stares at McCree. “I…am alive?”

Talking is a good sign, right? “Yeah!” Jesse pats his cheek, cracking a giddy smile. “Yer alive, sug–”

Hanzo kisses him. It’s swift and brutal, like a snakebite, the archer’s eyes closed and Jesse’s wide open. He cups the back of McCree’s head, holding him until air becomes a problem. Only then does he let go, a delicate strand of spit connecting their lips.

Now Jesse is the one who feels like he’s been hit by a train.

“My apologies,” Hanzo says, “I had to check for myself.”

“Yeah. Yeah, uh,” McCree replies, touching his own mouth in disbelief, “You…y’don’t gotta ‘pologize fer nothin’.”

The train jerks violently. Jesse’s heart jumps into his throat as Hanzo grabs onto him for support. A green glow emanates from the engine, and for a second McCree thinks they’re too late, that they’re all going to die anyway – until he sees whiskers and fangs in that vibrant gleam. There is a dragon ripping apart the engine, feeding off its momentum. Slowly but surely, the train powers down, and finally comes to a halt.

\- - -

They end up in a sparse plain twenty miles away from Los Angeles. The city’s spires are visible in the distance, its infamous smog long dispatched by modern technology. It stands as a reminder that they’re not out of danger yet.

If the events up till now have been a tsunami, Hanzo’s wading through the aftermath. There’s still the issue of the nuclear bomb, but that is nothing compared to the hell he endured. He has dangled in the maw of death and emerged triumphant. The bomb? A firefly eclipsed by the sun.

Genji trots over from the engine, tosses a large metal wheel to the ground. “I had to dissect for the brake,” he explains.

“Right,” Winston says. His voice betrays his frazzled nerves. “Plan A and Plan B are out.” He glances at Bastion and Zenyatta. The former has repaired its limb as well as it can, but its missing parts are scattered to the wind. The latter’s torso still hangs open, occasionally spitting sparks; he’s not floating as high as normal. “Genji? Plan C.”

The ninja doesn’t miss a beat, bowing. As he pulls the door of the third car from the engine open, he’s aware how far back the others are. How alone he is. But it doesn’t worry him. This will be easy.

The bomb is a white egg in a steel nest. Genji lifts himself into the car, flexes his fingers. And then– “Oh.”

“What is it?”

Genji’s answer is broadcast over all of their communicators. “The bomb is armed. One minute and twelve seconds until detonation.”

“Ho-lee _shit_ ,” McCree mutters, reaching for a hat that isn’t there and clutching his scalp instead. _Reyes_.

Struggling to find his tongue, Winston shoves his glasses higher. Sweat drips down his brow. “Okay, okay. Uh, there should be a panel. Take it off, Genji. _Slowly_.”

It’s barely noticeable. He can sever a man’s head with his blade, but now he uses it with the gentlest persuasion, prying the panel free. Inside is a circular device held in place with metal supports. A rod connects it to another round machine. Genji blinks the blur out of his sight. Once. Twice. It isn’t going away. “Ah–”

The gorilla double checks his position. “The mechanism on your left is the detonator. You need to disable it _very carefully_. We don’t know if it’s set to go off if tampered with. Expose the circuits, Genji.”

Something is wrong. Bastion and Zenyatta may have been unaffected by the bomb’s radiation, but Genji’s systems, already wire fine and delicate enough to interact with his human remains without shredding him, are acting strangely. The world through his helm is melting, pixels turning into warm taffy. With limbs that feel too light, too airy, he reaches for the latches on the back of his head that remove his visor.

There’s no response.

Cursing under his breath, Genji picks up his blade. He cuts shallow grooves into the rod, moving as slowly as he dares. Every second is precious, yet if he is overzealous and nicks something – boom. He yearns to hear Zenyatta’s voice, to be reassured all will be well–

“Cut the red wire, Genji.”

A mystic guru Winston isn’t. Actually seeing the wires is proving nearly impossible. His sight, rapidly deteriorating, is a cancerous mass of blotchy color. Genji wonders if he sustained damage on the train. If, by charging ahead and protecting his team, he has doomed them all. “Ah…”

Hanzo doesn’t need gizmos to tell his brother’s in trouble. Decades of experience suit him just as well. And while the body has changed, the language is largely the same.

“Genji, cut the wire,” Winston repeats, shifting restlessly, ready to leap into action.

The cyborg shakes his head, trying fruitlessly to clear his vision.

Hanzo lifts his bow.

“Genji–”

McCree notices the archer, reaches out to grab him.

“–cut the–”

He fires.

The arrow flies true, burying itself into the opposite wall of the train car. In the rod, there are now two red wires.

The countdown stops with a second left.

“–wire.”

No one moves.

Hanzo is the first to break the silence. Smirking at McCree’s grip on his arm, he makes no move to free himself. “Look at you! All of you!” he crows, “Only a fool allows fear to conquer him!”

Genji stumbles out of the train car, shuffles a good distance away, and lies down, vents releasing thick plumes of stressed out steam.

\- - -

The entire adventure, from start to finish, is over before noon. The only logical course of action, therefore, is going out for lunch.

It can hardly be called a restaurant – more a bungalow with a kitchen crammed in than anything else – but the staff and the food are authentic. Hanzo finds a table drenched in sunlight. In any other situation, the concept of thick corn chips slathered in ground beef and melted cheese would euthanize his appetite. The instant he caught a whiff of food, however, made his stomach rage back to life.

It’s greasy and salty and the beer is warm and he doesn’t care. Clog up _his_ arteries? Not him. Not when he’s on fire.

“Y’know what I said earlier? I take it back. You are _the_ best marksman I’ve ever seen.” McCree sits across from him, elbows on the table. “That shot was impossible.”

Hanzo cocks a shoulder. “We are here to speak of it, so it clearly was not.” 

Jesse is quiet, so the archer takes the opportunity to have his nachos. Finally, the cowboy leans in, squinting at his face. “Are you Hanzo Shimada?”

“Yes.”

“You sure about that? Yer actin’ awful cheerful. You let me sit with ya. Yer doin’ that smilin’ thing.” And Hanzo does smile at that, and there’s the flippy-floppy thing flip-flopping again. “You all right?”

“Yes, I am. There may be alternative scenarios playing out in universes separate from ours–” Hanzo brushes the air as if shooing away mosquitoes. “–where the outcome has differed: if I failed to shoot the wire, if I remained at camp, if you had dropped me, but those are speculation and not worth doting on. Here and now, I am glad to be here.”

_I can tell_ , McCree thinks, _Yer_ glowing _, honey_. “About that. Di’nt mean t’call you a fatass. Heat of the moment, y’know? I’m sure yer ass is perfect.”

“Would you like to see for yourself?”

Jesse turns a deep shade of red. Did he hear that right? Out of Hanzo Shimada? “Beg pardon?”

A clever glint gleams in pretty brown eyes. Hanzo stands; Jesse does too. The archer takes his hands, cracks a toothy grin. “I have looked into the jaws of death too often for one day. Can I trust you to make me feel alive?”

Oh. Oh _lord_. McCree smirks, easing one arm down to wrap around his waist. “Anything you want, darlin’. Just say the word.”

\- - -

Showering is much more pleasant when one has skin to experience it with. Genji settles for the lotus position beneath the tepid spray. Visor removed entirely for repairs, he opens his eyes when someone gently taps on the shower wall.

It’s Zenyatta. A brief appointment with Torbjorn has done wonders for him. Patched up as good as new, the monk waves at his pupil. “Waterfall meditation, my student?”

Genji gives a weak smile. “I may as well make my decontamination procedure productive.”

“Does something trouble you?”

The cyborg collects his thoughts, resting his palms on his knees. “No. Not precisely. It is my brother.” _Of course_ , he thinks. “He saved my life. He saved all our lives. The lives of every soul in the city. The Hanzo I know would not do such a thing. He is no fool, and I was distracted by the bomb, but as I think of it now, it does not seem such a stretch of the imagination to believe he could have shot me in the back. Perhaps it is petty of _me_ to think of _him_ as petty enough to do that.“

“You do not paint a flattering picture of your sibling from what you tell me,” Zenyatta says, “Ruthlessness is his nature.”

“Climates change. Mountains erode. No storm lasts forever.” Genji chuckles. “When I was a child, I remember visiting a zoo. They kept a snake – an anaconda, to be exact. Eighteen feet long, green as jade. It was molting. They told me it would take days for the animal to remove it entirely.” He lifts his head, smiling as realization dawns on him. “It has taken three weeks, but perhaps – just perhaps – a dragon as long as the sky has started to shed his skin.”


End file.
